


(Dis)Trust

by Mindful Self Indulgence (ohhaypsy)



Category: South Park
Genre: Aftercare, Aged-Up Character(s), Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 09:30:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13120935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhaypsy/pseuds/Mindful%20Self%20Indulgence
Summary: Craig and Tweek trust each other implicitly, except when they don't.





	(Dis)Trust

**Author's Note:**

> WELP. After years of half-finished fics, I finally commited to a South Park story. 
> 
> And then turned it into graphic porn. 
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> It's okay, there's lots of feels too. Just porn first.
> 
> Can't help the Creek bandwagon.

“Tweek. Do you trust me?”

You laugh at the question. He knows that you do, more than you’ve ever trusted anyone. You’ve been with him for ten years -- minus a few breaks -- and no one knows you like he does. 

You look up at him with a smile, but his expression is as serious as ever, waiting for your response. You swallow and nod. “Completely.”

He smiles at you, just a small one, but the gesture makes your chest feel like it’s going to explode it’s so full. It’s probably pathetic that that’s all it takes, but it’s so much more than he gives anyone else. He leans down to kiss you, then brings a strip of fabric around your eyes.

You flinch, but don’t stop him as he ties it around the back of your head, mindful as ever of your hair. The two of you have talked about doing this sort of thing before, but… “Craig, I don’t--”

“Hey, babe, it’s okay, I’ve got you.” He kisses you again, letting his fingers slide gently over your cheek. “I promise. You say the word and I stop, okay?”

You nod and take his hand. “Okay. I trust you.”

His hand slides out of yours, moving down your neck and chest. His mouth is on yours again, sliding his tongue in to distract you as he undoes the buttons of your shirt. It doesn’t take long; you’d missed a few when dressing, as per usual. But he keeps kissing you, biting gently on your lower lip. His palms move over your chest and shoulders, sliding your shirt off of you.

You love kissing him, and have had years to perfect the art of it. It had taken the two of you awhile to get there, though; your relationship had been innocent for a long while, content with holding hands. The two of you had been shoved together by fate and the Japanese, and you’d be lying if you said there wasn’t a sense of resignation about it at first. But that had only taken a few weeks to get past, when you noticed one day that he was using pet names and you were holding hands even though no one was around.

Even so, it had taken almost a full year before you worked up the courage to press a kiss to his cheek, and were rewarded by his lips against your forehead. And it wasn’t until the day of your elementary school graduation that you kissed him proper on the mouth, beating him to the punch when he tried to pull your face to his.

The first time you touched his dick was during a lock in at the community center in eighth grade, after muttering ‘Craig, can I touch your penis?’ in his ear. He’d gone bright red -- you’d grinned at that -- before whispering ‘I’m comfortable with that’ in yours. You gave your first handjob between your Terrence and Philip sleeping bags while your friends slept around you.

He gave you your first blowjob on his fifteenth birthday, insisting that it was a present for him. It was sloppy and he choked so hard he nearly threw up, but he still swallowed like a champ and you kissed him after.

It was only a few months after that the two of you had sex for the first time, on a too thin blanket in the back of his dad’s truck. He’d celebrated getting his driver’s permit by swiping the keys and taking you to the far side of Stark’s Pond, determined to ‘fuck you all romantic in the moonlight.’ The cold metal under the blanket proved too much for your back or knees, but you finished up in the cab of the truck by riding him in the passenger’s seat. You were both grounded for two weeks, but it had been worth it.

He was your first everything, your _only_ everything.

You feel warmth curl in you at thought and reach up, sliding your fingers under his hat to tangle in his hair. Before, of course, grunting in annoyance and pulling it off to toss aside. He laughs shortly against your lips, then breaks the kiss. There’s just the right amount of force when he shoves you back onto the bed. Then he’s on top of you, kissing you hard while his hands undo your pants. Your own grab at his shirt -- the asshole’s still fully dressed.

He groans when your nails scrape against his shoulder -- it’s not a displeased noise. “Relax, babe.”

“Gah!” You scrabble at him, trying to pull his shirt over his head. “Come on, Craig!”

“Fine, fine.” He pulls back, and you can feel his weight shifting on the bed as he pulls off his shirt. You sit up, kissing his now bare chest while your hands clumsily go for his pants. But you only manage to get the button and zipper undone before he’s shoving you back onto the bed. One hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back to give him easy access to your throat, and you moan when he bites at it. That’s going to bruise.

He never rushes -- that’s not his style. He loves trying your patience, dragging things out until you feel like you’ll lose your mind. He kisses his way up your throat, along your jaw. Not being able to see intensifies the sensation, and you gasp when he pinches your nipple. You can almost feel him grin against your ear before he slides his tongue along the cartilage.

You squirm, panting his name. “Jesus Christ, Craig…” He knows your ears are your weak spot, and takes advantage of it at every opportunity. This time, you claw down his spine, relishing the way he arches. Your hand slides down his pants and boxers to settle on his ass -- not that he has much of one, but you still like to grab it -- and squeeze it firmly, letting your nails dig in a bit.

You’re rewarded by him groaning against your ear. “Goddamnit, Tweek…” You turn to kiss him, distracting him as you slip a finger between his cheeks to massage his hole, and he gasps into your mouth. You’ve never wanted to top, and he’s not interested in bottoming. But he loves having his ass played with and you love pulling these sounds out of him. He fucks you so hard when he’s got something inside of him.

His head falls against your shoulder as he bucks his hips back against your finger. You wrap your free arm around him, holding him tight to you. You don’t know where the lube is, and trying to find and use it while blindfolded would break the mood, so you slowly, very carefully, press your finger inside of him. If it hurts, the pain is either minimal or pleasurable, judging by the way he moans and pushes back onto your finger.

You wish you could see him, but don’t take off your blindfold. Knowing him, he’s got a plan, and as much as you’re enjoying hijacking the train for a bit, you don't want to take it off the rails. So you finger fuck him slowly, kissing him as you crook your finger. 

He bucks again, and takes your wrist to pull your finger out of him. “Fuck, you’re distracting me.” He’s panting and doesn’t sound at all displeased.

He sits up and you follow suit, scrabbling blindly to pull off his pants. “Do you want--”

“Yeah.” He helps you pull his pants off, and you’re proud of how well you’re managing despite not being able to see. You were worried you might panic, but he’s here, and you trust him more than anything. The bed shifts again, and you can hear him rustling in his nightstand for a moment. He nearly slams it closed, and shoves a bottle of what you assume is lube into your hands, along with what you know is his favorite toy out of your small mutual collection. 

You fumble with the cap, shaking from arousal and eagerness and your standard twitchy nature. He hates this part, usually opting to do it himself, only letting you if you ask. You drop the bottle only once in your excitement. Your fingers are coated by the time he’s turned around, straddling your legs with his back to you. You lean forward to kiss his skin, estimating that you’re somewhere between his shoulder blades, and easily slip your first finger back inside of him. He moans, and you can feel the muscles in his back shift under your lips as he flexes his arms. “Fuck, just hurry up.”

“Hng, that’s way too much pressure! I don’t want to hurt you!” Even so, you slide your second finger in, groaning at the tight sensation while he arches. He always wants to rush prepping himself, saying it makes him feel too ‘open,’ which you read between the lines as ‘vulnerable.’ The first time he let you rim him was the only time he’s ever told you to stop during sex. Though a week later, he asked for another try at it, and Jesus Christ did you love the way it made him moan.

You never let him rush you though, taking your sweet time to make sure nothing hurts. You use your free hand to push him forward, just enough to give you a better angle as you scissor your fingers. You then slide your arm around him to gently stroke his erection. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” you mutter against his back, working him open more before pressing your ring finger in as well.

“Fuck, Tweek…” he sighs after another moment, finally relaxing around your fingers. Satisfied, you slide them out, and fumble for where you’d dropped the plug and the lube. You probably put way too much on it, but better safe than sorry, and it’s not like you can see what you’re doing. You’re slow as you slide it in, pressing against it once it’s seated and relish the way he squirms in your lap.

The next second he’s got you pressed into the bed again, hungrily kissing you, groaning into your mouth as the plug no doubt shifts inside him. You bring your knees up around his bare hips, a faint whine escaping you because your own pants are still in the way of more skin on skin contact. You break the kiss and push slightly at his shoulders. “Craig, my pants--”

He takes your hands by the wrists before they can move down to your waist. He doesn’t go back to kissing you, just keeps your hands in a loose hold, rubbing his thumbs over your pulse points. He’s silent, and Jesus Christ you wish you could see his face, see what he’s thinking.

You don’t have to wonder long, because he tells you. “Can I tie your hands?”

Your stomach jumps into your throat. Like the blindfold, it’s something you’ve talked about, expressed interest in, but never asked for out of nerves. Now, the words rush out of you. “Oh god, Craig, hng, _yes!”_

He’s pulling back from you again, rummaging through his nightstand once more. And then he’s back again, looping soft rope around each of your wrists, before tying them to each other and then up to the headboard, just loose enough to give you a little slack to pull. How long has he had these ropes? Just what the hell _else_ does he keep in that seemingly bottomless nightstand? You resolve to look through it later.

For now, you’re stretched out on his bed, back arching, desperate for contact. He finally slides your pants and underwear off, and you gasp as air touches your dick. “Legs up, babe,” you hear from somewhere around your crotch as he lifts you to slide a pillow under your hips. You oblige, bringing your knees up again and spreading your legs. He settles between them, sliding one arm under to grab your hip.

A strangled groan escapes you when he licks the underside of your dick from root to tip. He still isn’t good at deepthroating, but that doesn’t stop him from lavishing attention on your dick anytime he has the opportunity. He hasn’t said as much, but you can tell he _really_ loves sucking you off. 

He starts at the base, almost methodically laving your cock, occasionally dipping down to tease your balls with his tongue. He works his way up, and once your shaft is coated with his saliva, he works you with his hand for a moment to give himself a chance to catch his breath. You squirm and utter a soft _”gah!”_ as you feel warm air from him panting against you.

He removes his hand and resumes with his mouth, his hand moving down to tease your hole with his thumb. Finally, he sucks hard on the head, distracting you as he slides his thumb in.

“Fuck!” He presses down hard on your hip before you can buck up. You’re always bruised after sex -- not because he’s particularly rough, but rather because you just bruise easily. Vitamin C deficiency, he says, though you’re not sure why your distaste for orange juice would cause that, maybe you’ve got endocarditis or some blood disease and it’s just a matter of time before your heart stops but if that happens right now it’s probably because _he’s sucking your soul out your dick_ like some sort of cum vampire _Jesus Christ._

He’s speeding up, and you know you’re babbling at least half of these thoughts out loud, but you’re not sure which and in the back of your mind you hope you didn’t say the words _cum vampire_ or you’ll never hear the end of it. If you did, he’s not reacting, just pressing his thumb deeper, up to the knuckle, and you can feel it circling inside of you.

You pull at the rope, instinctively wanting to put your hands in his hair, but settle for gripping at the length of the rope. It’s snug around your wrists, but not too tight. When did he get so good at tying knots?

He takes you deeper, as deep as he can go without gagging, and with one more hard suck, you’re releasing into his mouth with a whimper. He swallows -- he always swallows -- and pulls back to lick you down from your orgasm. You shudder as he does so, and groan as he pulls his thumb out of you. He continues to rub against your hole for a bit.

“... Cum vampire?”

You can hear the amusement in his tone. You groan again, and turn your face to press it into your arm. “Shut up.” The words are lazy, almost slurred; you’re melted from your orgasm. He chuckles, then kisses up your body until he reaches your mouth. He kisses you slow and deep, with lots of tongue. You don’t enjoy the taste of cum, but you do enjoy kissing him enough that you don’t care.

When he breaks the kiss, he pulls back, then unties you from the headboard and your wrists from each other. But the rope is still around them as he flips you over, gently helping you to your knees. He always tries to make sure you orgasm before he fucks you, saying it helps you relax, loosens you up. 

He’s not wrong. You don’t resist as he stretches your arms in front of you, this time tying them individually to the headboard. You turn your face so it’s not pressed into the pillow. “C-craig?” You stutter, slightly nervous. You can barely move like this, more or less tied down, ass in the air.

He’s over you, kissing down your spine. “Is-- is this okay?” You hear your own nerves reflected back at you in his voice. “We can stop if you want?”

“It’s fine.” It’s strangely soothing to hear that he’s a little nervous too. It shows that you have nothing to fear, that your comfort is his first priority. “It feels good.” It’s not a lie. You pull slightly, groaning at the stretch in your shoulders. “I just-- I’m not gonna be able to do anything.”

His lips are at your lower back now, and you sigh in pleasure. “I know,” he murmurs against your skin, his hands sliding over your hips and legs, positioning them better, spreading them wide enough that you feel that stretch in your hips also. You have a strong suspicion you’ll be sore and walking funny tomorrow, but you super don’t care. “That’s the point.” He kisses your tailbone. “I want to take care of you.” His tongue dips into the top of your crack and you shiver, realizing how wide open you are for him. “Take the pressure off.”

You moan, at his words just as much as at the feeling of the flat of his tongue swiping over your asshole. You’re his, every last part of you, given to him willingly. You could have kept it fake, even staged another break up after some time. But the thought never crossed your mind, and he never once suggested it. Instead, here you are, ten years later, tied down to his bed and squirming while he spreads your ass cheeks and lovingly tonguefucks you.

Jesus Christ, you never thought a rimjob could be romantic, but here you are, putty on his tongue.

He slips two fingers into you; you’re loose enough where he doesn’t need lube. He spreads them, stretching you further while his tongue still flickers around your rim. 

“Fuck fuck fuck oh fuck Craig!” You’re reduced to needy sounds and cursing and his name, completely incapable of anything else. He was right; the only pressure you feel is the tightness in your muscles, and your groin as your erection starts returning. He slips his fingers out and presses his tongue in as far as he can. You keen as you feel it licking inside you.

You’re panting as he pulls away, fully hard again. You’re vaguely aware of the sound of the lube opening, and shudder when he easily slides three cold fingers inside of you. “Still okay, hon?”

You love that he’s checking in as he stretches you, preparing you for his cock. “Yes yes oh god yes fuck me Craig!” You’re shouting and vaguely hope the house is still empty.

 _”Fuck, Tweek,”_ he breathes, almost reverently. He rests his hand on your lower back, as if reminding you that he’s still there. You hear the sounds of him sliding lube over himself, and then he’s pressed against you, hand still on your back, rubbing his tip over your hole, giving you just enough time to register that he’s there.

And then he’s pressing into you, his other hand gripping your hip, sliding into you in one smooth motion, straight to the hilt. 

You cry out. You want to buck, to thrash, to rock back into him, _anything._ But all you can do is squirm and it feels _so fucking good_ to just be there, to just exist, to be nothing but want and need and pleasure as he fucks slowly into you, splitting you open just a little wider, going a little deeper, a little faster with each thrust. You’re going to break open and you trust him to rebuild you after.

By the time he hits speed, fucking you with abandon, you’re pretty sure you’re sobbing as you beg him not to stop. You can hear him grunting and groaning in between swearing and moaning your name and _fuck_ how can that sound so erotic? You can tell when the plug shifts inside him just right -- his hips stutter in their rhythm and he hisses, before fucking you harder.

You’re going to have bruises on your ass from his bony hips. Fucking _bruises._ As if sitting down wasn’t already going to be enough of a pain.

Your head is so gone by the time he finishes that you don’t exactly register when it happens. You feel him slam hard into you one last time, fingers gripping tight into your hips, moaning your name loudly. You love it when he’s loud; it happens so infrequently. He drapes over you, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, his hips just rocking shallowly against you. This time, your name is a breathy exhale against your skin. “Tweek…”

“Craig.” In contrast, your voice is a small whimper. You feel so full and your dick is _so_ hard, you feel like you’re losing your mind. “Touch me, Jesus Christ, touch me touch me please!”

He’s probably exhausted, but the thought doesn’t cross your mind. There’s no hesitation as both of his hands move to your groin, one hand jerking you off while the other fondles and massages your balls. Between that and the feeling of him, now soft, still inside of you, it only takes seconds. Face in the pillow, muffling your cry, you cum hard enough where you _do_ lose your mind. 

You’re aware of him pulling out of you, of him undoing the ties around your hands and helping you lie on your back, but there’s a disconnect between yourself and the sensations. You hear him groan when he pulls the plug out of himself. Hear him say that he’s going to take the blindfold off, and you feel yourself nod, as though someone else is doing it for you. You don’t bother to open your eyes once it’s off.

He leaves, and you whine at the loss of his warmth, but he returns quickly with a glass of water and a washcloth. He sits you up just enough to help you drink some, then lays you back down and cleans you up. Your hands, your chest, your ass; he slides the damp washcloth over each area with care.

Aftercare, that’s the word for it. He’s good at it. And beforecare. Duringcare. He’s good at caring always. You hear yourself giggle deliriously and know that you said all of that out loud. He doesn’t say anything, just slides your boxers back on you -- he knows you don’t like sleeping naked -- and lays down with you. He pulls you into his arms and wraps his comforter around the both of you.

You think you sleep. You’re really not sure.

When you come to, the blanket is gone but he’s still holding you, face in your hair, your boneless form huddled against his chest. His fingertips slide down your spine, and you think it’s the most relaxed you’ve ever been in your entire life. But… he’s not. You can feel the tension in his muscles, and when you look up at him, he’s staring at the ceiling, his features etched into a deeper frown than usual.

You’re alert and wide awake now. Relaxation starts to flee your body, and you prop yourself up to look at him. “Craig, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” is his reflexive response, and you can feel the muscles in your back start to knot up at the lie. He’s not looking at you, but his fingers have stilled; he knows what’s coming. You hate it when he’s like this, when he’s holding something back. He’s unreadable to most people, but you’ve learned his tells.

He shifts to sit up when you pull away, but you move to straddle his lap before he can get up, only groaning faintly at the pain in your hips and ass. It’ll be worse later, but there’s more important things right now. “Stop it, what’s wrong?” Your hands are shaking when they find his face, your post-orgasmic haze quickly receding. It must be important if it’s got him all knotted up after sex. You turn his face to you, but his gaze stays averted. “Jesus, Craig, just fucking tell me!”

His frown pinches tighter, but his hands settle on your thighs, fingers fidgeting with the fabric of your boxers. You stay silent, knowing that the restless movement means he’s trying to find the words. Pushing him now will cause him to either dig his heels in or snap at you. So you wait, nearly vibrating with nervous energy, trying to keep your hands steady on his cheeks, focusing on the small movements of his eyebrows as he thinks.

When his hands finally settle, he looks you in the eye. You hold your breath without meaning to.

“My application to CSU got accepted.”

His what? To where? He already goes to Colorado Mountain College in Breckenridge, same as you. He’s finishing his Associate’s this semester, but he’d always talked about how useless college is and how he only went to make his parents happy. “You’re-- You’re going?”

He sighs and leans back against the headboard, looking up at the ceiling, and your hands fall to his chest. “I haven’t decided. I’m waiting to hear back from UC Denver.”

So it’s not a matter of _if_ he’s going, but _where?_ And why the fuck is this the first time you’re hearing about it? “Jesus Christ, where else have you applied? And why the fuck didn’t you tell me, Craig?” You’re trying to keep your voice calm and failing miserably.

Predictably, he scowls and gently shoves you off of him. Even frustrated, he’s careful to not jostle you too much -- but you do have to hold back a grunt of pain. “Because I knew you would freak out like this, and figured there was no point in having this fight if I didn’t get accepted.” He gets up to grab his jeans and pull them on. He’s not looking at you again, Jesus Christ you hate it when he doesn’t look at you.

“Maybe I wouldn’t freak out if you didn’t just spring this shit on me!” He’s moving to open the window, and you scramble for a shirt. He only smokes in his room after sex or when you’re fighting, and both boxes are ticked now. “I didn’t think you even wanted to go to university, gah, you said it’d be a waste!”

“Yeah, well plans change, Tweek.” He leans against his dresser and lights a cigarette. You don’t know how he’s not freezing without a shirt, but he’s never as cold as you are, you’re constantly shaking while he’s so still and always so warm and--

“GAH!” You give up on your shirt after two buttons. “What the fuck changed?!” You don’t know when you stood but you’re on your feet and they’re carrying you back and forth across the room. You’re vaguely aware of a soreness in your hips. “So what, you’re just gonna go off to Denver or, nng! Fort fucking Collins?!”

“It’s only two hours away, not the other side of the country. I’ll be back on weekends, Tweek, calm down--”

 _”CALM DOWN?”_ You fucking _hate_ being told to calm down and he knows it, the fucking prick, as if saying those two words could magically slow your heart rate and make it easier to breathe, like you’d never before thought to just _calm the fuck down._ “Fuck you, Craig! You’re planning on moving away and you didn’t even bother to tell me you were thinking about it! That’s not fucking fair and you know it, you’re supposed to trust me with that kind of shit!”

“Tweek, I just--”

“Remember when Wendy went to Stanford? She broke up with Stan after six months! Six months, Craig, _Wendy and Stan!_ That’s what happens when people leave, they leave people they love behind and then they stop loving them! If you want to get away from me, then just, hnng! Just break up with me, don’t pretend to--”

“I’m not breaking up with you!” He’s yelling too, now. He’s yelling and the window’s open and Tricia’s probably home and she can hear him yelling and she knows the two of you are fighting _again_ and that you’re not good for him and you’re just making him miserable and it’s too much pressure--

“Jesus Christ, just fucking do it and put me out of my misery!” You’re crying, fuck you hate crying, you pull at your hair to try and ground yourself but it doesn’t help. “Don’t make me stay here and wait for you to decide you’re tired of putting up with me and nng--”

He slams his hand on the dresser; the sound is jarring enough to interrupt your panicked tirade. “God damnit, Tweek, I’m doing this _for_ you, so just shut up for five fucking seconds!”

“You--” You grip your biceps, tight enough to feel your short fingernails through the fabric of your sleeves. “... W-what?”

He looks tired suddenly, exhausted in a way you’ve never seen before, looking much older than his twenty years. “I’m transferring to university for you.”

Your anger and panic is gone, replaced by fear and concern for him. You move towards him, but hesitate to touch him at the moment. He still doesn’t handle emotions well and gets notoriously prickly when forced to deal with them. “What do you mean?”

He sighs, looking out the window as he takes a drag off of his cigarette. He’s fidgeting again, rolling the filter between his fingers. “... I had a conversation with your dad a while ago, and it got me thinking. About the future.”

You hiss a soft _”Jesus Christ”_ at the idea of him talking to your father. He’s made it clear that he doesn’t like your parents, though doesn’t go into much detail about it. He doesn’t have to; you can guess why. You just do your best to avoid talking about them, and he doesn’t bring it up either.

You move closer to him, still not touching except for your fingers bumping against his when you steal his cigarette for a drag. “What did you talk about?” You stutter around the words, all sorts of worst case scenarios fluttering through your mind.

“You.” He says simply, as if the answer could have been anything else. He steals a glance at you before looking back out the window again. “I had come over to talk you through a panic attack. As I was leaving, he more or less said he was excited for me to get my shit together so you could be _my_ problem instead of his.”

Oh god, you can hear it in his voice too. There was probably some stupid metaphor alongside it. He was never straightforward. “He’s always joked like that. I told you about how he said he was going to sell me into slavery, remember?”

“It wasn’t a fucking joke, Tweek!” You recoil when he yells, dropping the cigarette. In a quick, smooth movement, he grabs it off the ground before it can light the carpet on fire and Jesus Christ you nearly just burned the house down. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but your parents are fucking terrible. Only the McCormicks are more neglectful. You’re free labor and a guinea pig to them. For fuck’s sake they made you taste test their _meth_ coffee!”

You flinch as though he physically hit you. He doesn’t have to bring it up, you remember the withdrawals, you remember him holding you as you shook and sobbed, keeping a cool rag on your head and pulling back your hair as you vomited your guts up. Your parents had apologized -- most of the town had drank the coffee with minimal side effects. They’d underestimated your intake and how much it would affect you. You had ADHD; amphetamines were used to treat it. They thought they were helping you. They weren’t bad people, just… stupid. As if that was breaking news in South Park.

You were thirteen and had to go to rehab. It wasn’t the first time you had to be pulled out of school for a psychotic break. But after that time, you’d never quite managed to catch up. You had to drop out and get your GED when you were sixteen. Even now, you can barely handle eight credits a semester at a community college. You live with your parents and work at the coffee shop because you _can’t_ do anything else.

Fuck, you’re crying again. You’re clutching your arms so hard you think you might be breaking skin. You close your eyes, unable to look at him and see how angry he is. He’s not _completely_ wrong, but… “Craig, they’re my parents. I’m not easy to deal with, you know that, they just--”

“Tweek!” Your name is snapped, and before you can react, he’s grabbing your biceps and you wonder what happened to his cigarette he must have thrown it out the window did he stub it out first there are plants down there he probably started a fire you should get out of the house before--

He gives you a little shake and your eyes snap open to look up at him. He looks so angry still. “You are _not_ anyone’s _problem,_ Tweek. Sure, you’re difficult, but easy people are _boring._ You--” He peters out, looking away, mouth curled into a frown of frustration. He’s quiet, and you wait as he struggles with the words. As much as you wish sometimes he’d let go of his emotions more, it makes you cherish each time he does.

Instead, he pulls you into a tight hug, repeating softly into your hair. “You’re not anyone’s problem. Especially not mine.” He hesitates. “But…”

You tense, tightening your arms around his slim waist, relishing how still he is against you, even as you shake with nerves. Nothing good comes after the word ‘but.’ “But what, Craig?”

“Your dad was right about one thing.” He doesn’t let you pull back. It’s easier for him to talk like this when he’s not looking directly at you, so he holds you instead. “I can’t fuck around at the laundromat forever. I need to get my shit together so I can take care of you.”

This time you pull away harder, and he lets you go. “I don’t need you to take care of me! Jesus Christ, I’m a mess but I’m not a child! Nng, you don’t have to--!”

“I know.” His voice is steady and calm this time when he interrupts you. His hands move to your shirt, adjusting the buttons so they’re done properly. He keeps his eyes on his fingers, working methodically. “I want to. Because it makes your life easier. You can focus on things like school or work part time if you want so there’s not too much pressure. So you can do what _you_ need to, at your own pace. And…” He smooths down the front of your shirt, then takes your hands. He’s admitted that he likes holding your hands. “...It would make me so happy to be the one who helps you do that.”

“...Craig.” Your voice cracks as you throw yourself back into his arms, your own around his neck. This is why you love him. He doesn’t try to fix you or baby you. But he does everything he can to help you help yourself. 

But the idea of him being away still scares you. “But I’ll only see you on weekends. And what if you’re working, or, or have too much homework and can’t come home?” You know you can manage without him, but you don’t want to.

His hands rub steadily along your spine. “Whether it’s Fort Collins or Denver, I’ll go up there before the semester starts. Get an apartment. Get a job. Start school. Come home every weekend. And once I’m settled, if you want, you can… you can move up there with me. I talked to my parents about it, and they’re willing to help us out, as much as they can.”

“They…” Jesus Christ, you love the Tucker family. Both of your families were almost overbearingly supportive. But there was a sincerity with his family that there wasn’t with yours. Your father always mentioned how good you two were for business. _His_ father talked about how good you two were for _each other._ “They’d really do that? For me, gah, for us?” The Tucker family has never had much in the way of spare money; the fact that they’re willing to offer what they could means the world to you.

“Tweek.” You can hear his eyes roll. “My family likes you more than they like me.” 

You laugh into his shoulder. The Tuckers treat you like another son. Your parents treat the two of you like an accessory. Even so, they’re still your parents and you’ll always love them. And they _do_ care for you in their own shitty but not really any worse than anyone else in South Park way. It’ll probably always be a bone of contention between the two of you.

“Iwanttomovewithyou.” The words rush from your mouth as you lift your head to look at him. You can’t remember the last time you were this excited about something. You’re going to live with him. Jesus Christ, _he_ wants to live with _you._ The two of you are going to get out of this shithole town for at least a little while and you’ll do it _together._

Before he can respond, you’re pressing your face back into his neck. “I’m sorry I’m sorry, gah, Jesus Christ I’m so sorry I lost my shit, I should have trusted you, hnng, I’m sorry.”

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay.” He slides his fingers through your hair, careful of the snarls. “You don’t have to be sorry. I should have told you I was applying in the first place.” His hand stills, and you can feel his fingers curl, gently massaging the back of your skull. He’s quiet for a long moment, before speaking softly. “I was nervous. It just sometimes feels like you’re trying to push me away. You act like I’m looking for an excuse to break up with you, so you try to, I don’t know, give me reasons to do it, like you’re daring me to.”

“Jesus Christ, Craig,” you whisper against his neck, feeling shamed. Because he’s right. You had told him to end it just minutes ago. You _know_ he doesn’t want to break up, but that doesn’t stop the voice in the back of your head telling you that you don't deserve him, that maybe it’s better to end things now before he hates you and all this time spent trying to make a relationship that you two didn’t originally want work was a waste because who wants a paranoid spaz as a boyfriend when it’s such hard fucking work and that you--

“Honey, you’re spiraling.”

“GAH!” You pull back, not out of his arms, but just enough to take a deep breath because Jesus Christ you’re not sure how much of that you said out loud. And to probably to let him breathe because you’re suddenly aware of how tight you were holding him. He’s watching you carefully, but with only mild concern. It’s common, he knows there’s no point in panicking or worrying too much when you’re spiraling like that. More than anything, he’s silently touching base to make sure you’ve snapped out of it for the moment.

You let your forehead drop to his chest. “I know, I’m sorry, I don’t, nng, mean to, I just get scared that you don’t tell me things because--”

He doesn’t let you finish. “Well that’s wrong. I don’t tell you things because I’m an asshole who sometimes fucks up and hurts the people he loves.” You sag into him when he uses the word love. It’s not one he uses often. Other than the pet names, which he, strangely, has always been much more free with than you are, he’s the sort of person who expresses himself through actions rather than words. You feel his fingers sliding through your hair. “I get scared too sometimes. I didn’t tell you because I was scared of what you would say. I was scared you wouldn’t want to go with me.”

You arch up to kiss him before he can say anymore. It’s probably terrible, but in an awful way you love to hear him voice his insecurities. You love that he trusts you enough to show vulnerability. That he lets you smooth away his worries and doubts. That he considers you support instead of a burden.

When the kiss ends, you slide a hand around the back of head, gently pulling down to touch his forehead to yours. “We’re in this together, Craig. Where you go, I go.” You can feel him relax against you and it’s the best feeling in the world. You move your hands to his cheeks, kissing him again, soft, brief and deliberate. “Do you trust me?”

He meets your eyes and there’s no hesitation. “Completely.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact, this was completed originally with the sex only referenced. Then I decided to try some porn and it doubled in length.
> 
> Thanks for reading my nonsense.


End file.
